


Good Publicity (is worth its weight in tequila)

by aftersoon (notboldly)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Office, First Time, M/M, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-25
Updated: 2013-10-25
Packaged: 2017-12-30 01:09:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1012227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notboldly/pseuds/aftersoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Phil wanted was a quiet drink. What he got was a devastatingly handsome archer, one meddling boss, and a job in PR for the most destructive team of superheroes he'd ever heard of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first of two stories for Marvel Big Bang 2013, and it contains art by the talented [chosenfire28](http://chosenfire28.livejournal.com/), located [here](http://chosenfire28.livejournal.com/288705.html). Thank you so much for contributing with me. :)
> 
> And thank you, as always, to my friend and beta [what_alchemy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/what_alchemy) for helping this fic become the story I wanted it to be. Your support is more valued than you know. :)

Phil knew it was going to be a bad day when, ten a.m. on the dot, an explosion destroyed the upper parking garage, wiping his brand new Jetta thoroughly out of existence. He saw it from the thirtieth floor of Stark Tower in between herding skittish interns and his second cup of coffee, and he didn't have much time to react the way he wanted to when he saw the flames spike and shoot dozens of feet into the air. All that came out was a quiet sigh, followed by a familiar throbbing headache that rolled in when fire truck sirens began wailing right on time.

Janet took one look at him before silently pouring him a cup of coffee from her own private pot, then offering it to him with a deliberately bright smile. Phil dreaded the day she would inevitably be promoted, because as far as he knew, she was the only one in the building who'd gone through as many cars as he had.

"Good morning, Janet." He sipped his coffee, pleased to find it dark, bitter, and hot. "Lose another one?"

She shook her head, her dark curls bouncing and her normal smile warring with what must have been overwhelming relief.

"No, I parked on 40th Street." She winced in preemptive sympathy. "Don't tell me. You were in the upper lot?"

Phil nodded and added sugar to his coffee. Too much sugar, probably; it was one of those days.

"How many is that? Three?"

"Four," Phil said, voice just shy of sharp. "Four in eleven months. I think my insurance is starting to think I'm scamming them. Either way, they're going to raise my premium. And my deductible."

Janet winced again, but didn't say anything else. They'd had this conversation before, on her end or his, at least every other time Phil made it down to Legal. It was starting to become routine. It was starting to piss him off.

Phil smiled as much as he was able to.

"Do you have the re-zoning forms? Apparently the city is kicking up a fuss about the on-site arc reactor again, and Ms. Potts wants them filled out as soon as possible."

Janet handed him a thick packet, thicker than the last time Phil had seen it, and she smiled in sympathy for an entirely different reason.

"Sorry, Phil—they added a new ordinance." Which, to Phil, meant hours of reading, in what little spare time he had. "I had Clara look over the old paperwork, but it's bungled. That needs resubmitted too."

Phil nodded and tucked the hefty folder under one arm, feeling like he was a secretary all over again. Not for the first time, he wondered what the difference was; as far as he could see, being Pepper's PA just meant he lost more sleep, and more cars.

"Thanks, Janet." Phil saluted her with his coffee mug, and he turned around just in time to see the roof of the parking garage collapse. If his car hadn't been totaled before, it certainly was now.

It took an enormous amount of effort, but Phil managed to keep his reaction to just another sigh, and he resolved to bury himself in paperwork somewhere far away from the windows.

****

Phil spent most of the morning and the better part of his afternoon telling callers that Pepper was not, in fact, available, and that he wasn't just hiding her from the recurring backlash that came with dating a destructive superhero. After doing this same song and dance for ten months, he'd come to expect the lost productivity, and so it wasn't any surprise that he fell behind as a result of fielding an abnormal number of phone calls. When his work began to pile up in literal piles, he told himself that he wasn't working from home again. Pepper always insisted that none of the work was urgent, and Phil knew very well that some of the reading could wait even if the appointments and paperwork couldn't. By the time Pepper gave him permission to go home and she herself left for the evening, he'd almost convinced himself that he would let it sit overnight.

Phil wound up taking two thick folders with him, just so he would have something to read on the subway. He didn't fully believe the excuse himself, but if anyone asked, at least he had it ready.

It took him five minutes of standing on the dirty platform to admit that no one would ask, largely because no one he knew would see him before seven the next morning. It was a depressing thought, and it was only amplified by standing in a crowded subway train, surrounded by strangers who breathed too heavily on his nice suit and dropped gum underneath his shoes. Even by New York standards, the atmosphere was lacking, and Phil desperately wished he were somewhere else, anywhere but here or his lonely apartment.

It was due to pure impulse that he got off three stops early from the subway and began walking east, carefully avoiding the glittering puddles from that afternoon's rain. The folders he'd brought were deliberately sealed away, but every time his leather briefcase bounced against his calf, he was reminded of the work waiting for him. It wouldn't make it easy to relax, but that was the beauty of Toolie's: since going there always made him feel half a step away from his next tetanus shot, relaxing wasn't really the point.

Finding the bar was never simple, squashed as it was between a popular sandwich shop and a parking garage, but when he pushed through the door and was rewarded by the light scrape of the broken entry bell, it all felt worth it. Toolie's looked the same as it always did, cracked leather over stools and benches and bar painted a tacky gold, and per usual, he spent the good ten steps to the bar trying to decide what the theme actually _was_. He thought they might have tried for an authentic piece of culture but changed their mind halfway through, and now it just looked like a dingy bar in west Manhattan. It was, for reasons he could never explain, his favorite bar.

Phil sat down heavily on the last open stool, tucking his briefcase between the bar and his legs, and the bartender turned around just in time for Phil to realize she seemed familiar but not enough to quite place her name. Well, it was a Wednesday; he was much more of a Friday patron generally, but the deviation from routine seemed justified tonight.

The bartender smiled at him, teeth just off from even, one dimple on her left cheek. She was pretty in a friendly way, and he imagined she made good tips.

"Hey! Phil, right?"

Phil nodded, a little surprised. It took him a moment before he remembered that he'd last seen her a couple weeks ago, when she was following Friday's bartender, Stan, around. Stan must have pointed him out.

 _Good lord_ , Phil thought. _I must be a regular._

"That's me." He fumbled with his wallet before pulling out a crisp ten. "Just a glass of Miller, please. Sandra, right?"

"Chandra," she said, "but close."

He slid the bill across the counter and waved away the change, and she didn't try to talk to him beyond a simple thanks and the presentation of his beer. It was a relief, somewhat, to be ignored while he sipped his drink, but it was also calming just being around the crowd, _his_ crowd, and hearing the light chatter that filled the air. It was exactly what he needed.

When Chandra suddenly cursed, Phil wasn't sure if it was directed towards him, but he heard it well enough regardless.

"Christ. Not _again_."

Phil didn't have time to ask, because in the space of a second, the bar went from full to overcrowded, with a seemingly endless stream of people pouring in through the single door of Toolie's. Phil hunched over his beer as bodies pressed in from all sides, and he couldn't help but notice that they weren't the usual crowd of tired old businessmen. This crowd had more colors than he'd seen all day at the office, and he didn't think it was wrong to say that some of these people—most of them—looked barely legal. He couldn't understand it; Toolie's, as a general rule, was not the sort of place the hip crowd frequented.

Then there was a short laugh, loud and familiar, and Phil could have banged his head on the bar. _That_ had sounded like Tony Stark, and he turned his head just slightly, caught a glimpse of red and gold, and then immediately snapped back around. Not just Tony Stark, but Tony Stark as _Iron Man_ , with _the Avengers_. Phil's night had gotten infinitely worse.

"Drinks for everyone, on me!"

The crush at the bar increased immediately after Stark's announcement, pressing Phil close to chipped paint and metal. He banged his shin on his briefcase and nearly spilled his beer, but he'd lived in New York too long to be pushed around easily; after a few meaningful jabs of his elbow to strangers' sides, a space opened up around him and he could breathe again. Even with the extra room, however, it wasn't easy to regain the calm he'd had just minutes earlier. The temperature had shot up at least five degrees with the appearance of so many bodies crammed into the small bar, and there was a thick stripe of condensation from his beer on his dry-clean-only coat. He felt overheated and damp, and the closest to frazzled he'd been in a long time.

When the space opened up on the countertop, Phil gave into his earlier urge and very gently banged his head on the bar.

****

Phil expected most of the crowd would leave as soon as the supply of free drinks dried up, and he was right. It gave him very little comfort, because what he'd meant to be a quick drink in a favorite bar quickly became an hours long endeavor, simply because he couldn't get _away_. The throng of people was just too thick to weave through, and after a few aborted attempts, he gave up trying to leave his stool. After an hour, ingrained stubbornness kicked in, and he told himself that _he_ wasn't leaving. Phil had been here first, and he was damned well going to enjoy his drink, even if he had to wait for everyone else to leave before that happened. Even if "drink" quickly became "drink _s_."

It took almost an hour and a half for the bar to lose enough people that Phil thought it was only slightly busier than usual. Chandra stopped looking quite as harried in her place behind the bar, and Phil was just considering moving on to something with a higher alcohol content when someone jostled his elbow, spilling his planned sip of beer down his chin. It was the third time that had happened.

"Aw, shit. Sorry."

That, however, was the first apology he'd gotten all night, and so Phil just nodded, dabbing at the mess with a paper napkin.

"Don't worry about it."

The man next to him was ignoring him by then, already in the middle of ordering an absurd number of tequila shots, but Phil didn't take it personally. It was Manhattan, after all, and he was just another suit.

A cheer went up behind him, the tenth or so in the last hour, and Phil closed his eyes. This was why he hated the fact that New York was the Avengers' home base. They were a reclusive lot but not enough that villains couldn't find them, and any time they battled anyone, no matter how much property damage they caused, the following night was like a New Year's Eve party: all celebration, no consequences, with Tony Stark right at the front of the pack.

"Public menace," Phil mumbled, and he was surprised when there was a laugh to his left, from the same man as before.

"Who, Stark? I'm sure that's not the first time he's heard that."

Phil turned his head to reply, and then paused. Blinked. Possibly he should have turned around earlier, because the man next to him had very nice arms attached to a very nice torso, and Phil hadn't expected that at all. He even forgave him the purple and black vest he was wearing, because it was clear he worked out, and Phil could appreciate the results even when framed by something that looked like the same vinyl used to cover car seats.

"You're probably right," Phil said, which was not the end to the conversation that he'd planned, and the man nudged him gently in the shoulder. Phil let him; the stranger wasn't a handsome man, not exactly, but there was something appealing about his face, about his not-quite-blue eyes lit with mischief.

"So, what'd he do to you? Buy out your company? Steal your girl?"

The idea that Phil and Tony Stark had the same taste in women was laughable, even if the comment itself wasn't.

"No. I've just met him once or twice." Phil had, because Pepper still subscribed to the old-fashioned notion that you were supposed to treat your employees like human beings, and that included introductions. He doubted Stark remembered his name. "We're not close."

The man nodded like he understood perfectly.

"Yeah, I don't blame you. Stark takes some getting used to." He gave Phil a once-over, too quick to really count as anything other than casual, and then he pushed one of the tequila shots towards him. "Here. You look like you could use this."

Phil accepted it, but only because he'd seen Chandra pour it less than a minute ago. The burn was exactly what he'd expected, but the punch of it against his throat surprised him; it was _good_ tequila, the expensive kind, and only one of about thirty shots. Phil eyed the man in the vest speculatively, trying to decide if he looked familiar or not; if he knew Stark, it was possible Phil had met him before, only without the vest that—now that he thought about it—looked vaguely like a uniform. Or a costume.

The effort to place him did no good. Phil's eyes, completely on accident, kept straying to his bare arms, to tight, well-defined muscles and blue veins. Worse, around the third time it happened, the man _noticed_ , and he gave Phil a curious look that was more embarrassing than anything else. Phil looked down at his drink.

"Hey." Another shot slid into Phil's line of sight. "My name's Clint."

Phil looked up just in time to catch 'Clint' giving him another sweeping glance, this one much slower than the last. Phil could've smiled; it was flattering, even if it was completely unwanted at the moment.

"I'm Phil," he said, taking the shot because it was only polite. Clint smiled at him, and Phil was forced to revise his earlier conclusion; that smile made him _almost_ handsome.

"Phil," he repeated, voice laced with flirtation and amusement both. "Come here often?"

Phil nearly snorted his tequila.

"Too often," he said, voice wry.

"Then do you want to get out of here?" His voice was pitched low and gravelly. "I know a place or two." _My place_ , he didn't say, but Phil heard it.

He was direct, Phil had to give him that, and the offer was tempting. When Phil thought of his apartment with its empty bed and nothing waiting for him but work and his plants, the offer was even _very_ tempting. But then he thought of all the paperwork ahead of him, and he thought of Thursday, long and looming after a night of little sleep, and fighting temptation was easy.

"Sorry," Phil said, trying to smile apologetically. "I'd rather not."

Clint looked surprised but unoffended. Phil was relieved; the refusal could have gone much worse.

The relief didn't last very long.

"How about another drink then? Let me just run these to my friends," Clint said, indicating the remaining shots, "and I'll be right back."

Phil smiled again, but it felt a bit stiff.

"Sure."

Clint grinned, and the expression was happy enough that Phil almost felt guilty.

As soon as Clint left the bar with his borrowed trays brimming with tequila shots, Phil drained the dregs of his beer, grabbed his briefcase, and slipped quietly out the door.


	2. Chapter 2

Phil hadn't had a hangover since he was twenty-three, and he'd certainly never had one as the result of three beers, two shots of tequila, and a night spent filling out forms in neat triplicate. When he woke up on his couch right on time, with his cheek smashed to a carbon copy form and eyes that stubbornly tried to remain closed, Phil reiterated that fact to himself several times. It didn't matter that he had a headache that throbbed insistently above his eyes, that his mouth was dry and stiff, that his stomach felt queasy; it simply wasn't a hangover. End of discussion.

Regardless of cause, however, Phil knew he wasn't operating at his best, so he took a cold shower as quick as he dared, swallowed three Advil and a glass of water, and put on his best suit. The lines of thick black wool wouldn't fool anyone who knew him well, but it was the only suit that had been taken in since his brief bout of stomach flu last winter, and it fit him well enough to distract from the bags under his eyes. At least, that's what Phil hoped.

He should have known that when he arrived at Stark Industries at six thirty, right on time, that his luck would have Pepper Potts waiting for him. Phil didn't even have her coffee; she rarely showed up before eight, and she had never shown up before _him_.

"Ms. Potts," he said, trying for professionalism rather than surprise. She smiled sunnily at him, and the expression made her look especially lovely in her cream-colored suit.

"Phil! I was wondering when I'd see you today." Phil tensed, excuse on the ready, and she laughed at the expression on his face. Most people would have called it blank. "Oh, I don't mean it like that. I'm sure if you were ever in an accident, you'd call from the ambulance before we even noticed the delay." The statement, meant jokingly, was more accurate than Phil cared to admit. Thankfully, she continued without registering his expression. "I just heard about your car problems yesterday, and I wouldn't have blamed you for running late."

She held out her hand, and Phil instinctively gave her his coffee. Pepper frowned like that hadn't been what she was expecting, but she didn't hand it back, instead turning and walking to the elevator. The click of her heels was oddly eerie in a lobby absent the sounds of phones ringing and people milling about, but Phil was quickly distracted by Pepper's friendly chatter. He smiled more than once as they discussed business, and the routine, in a rare moment, made him glad that he'd accepted this promotion. Regardless of his feelings on Stark Industries as a whole, he would always like Pepper.

Phil liked her significantly less when the conversation, as they so often did, took a turn for the personal.

"So. I was talking to Tony last night, when he got back from his normal celebratory drinks. Drunk and stumbling, of course." She laughed lightly, and Phil could just imagine how that conversation had gone. Pepper, after all, took no prisoners.

"Everything all right?"

"Fine, except he would not let go of an idea he had." At Phil's look, she leaned forward with a secretive air even though they were alone in the elevator. "Apparently, the Avengers need a publicist." 

"That so?" Phil asked, and he refrained from remarking that they probably needed a keeper more than anything.

"He seems to think so. Of course, he was drunk last night, but he seemed perfectly sober this morning when he repeated it." She shook her head, clearly wondering about the strangeness of it all, at least until she caught sight of his briefcase. "Oh, Phil. Don't tell me you worked from home again?"

"Only on things that couldn't wait." Pepper frowned again, and Phil neatly sidestepped that conversation. "Mr. Stark does know that SI has an entire publicity department, right? He could probably have an entire team together by tomorrow if he wanted."

"That's the strange thing about it—he wanted someone in particular, although he wouldn't tell me who." Pepper sighed as they reached their floor. "Tony's mind, I swear. Sometimes I don't understand him at all." It was said with the sort of fondness that Phil envied, and coming up with a response that wasn't _he's the luckiest man on Earth_ was hard.

"I'm sure he'll explain it eventually," Phil finally settled on, and she smiled softly.

"I'm sure you're right."

The elevator doors opened, and the conversation was lost in the flurry of the day. Even the peaceful morning hours were flung into chaos when the first thing waiting for them was a pile of wrongfully rejected patents and nonsense lawsuits, and Phil spent the better part of his morning giving the elevator a workout between floors. 

The instant he finally had a moment to himself, Pepper walked up to his desk, ear pressed to her cell phone, and clearly looking for him.

"What—Phil? Yes, he's right here." She pursed her lips while the voice on the other end of the line spoke, a distinct furrow appearing in her brow the longer the conversation continued. Phil turned to look at a small stack of papers, shuffling them awkwardly as he tried to ignore the conversation happening a few feet away.

When Pepper hung up the phone and Phil looked up, he found her studying him with an expression he wasn't sure he liked. 

"Phil? If we could have a word in my office, please."

Phil followed her obediently to the next floor up, and when they walked inside Pepper's office, the first thing she did was take his forms from him and ask him to take a seat. Phil sat, and he tried not to let the confusion show on his face.

"Ms. Potts?"

"I just got a call from Tony," she said, sitting primly on the edge of her desk. "Apparently, he's figured out the publicist he wants, or one of them. Although I have to say, it leaves me in a bit of a bind."

"Yes?" Phil wasn't entirely sure what this had to do with speaking with him, or at least he didn't until Pepper looked at him expectantly. "What? No."

She stopped looking serious for half a second, long enough to smile at him.

"That's what I told him you'd say. He's insisting." Phil opened his mouth to protest, but Pepper held up a hand. "I told him it might be good for you."

" _Pepper_."

If she was surprised he knew her nickname, she didn't show it. In fact, her expression seemed to be somewhere between the friendly woman he saw in the mornings, and the CEO who came out the rest of the time. It didn't give him hope for his chances at refusing out right, so he tried reason.

"I'm not qualified. Or experienced."

"Tony said he wanted someone trustworthy, Phil, and you were the first name I could think of." The compliment was delivered without pause, and Phil didn't have time to be flattered. "Also, you minored in journalism," she said, as though that somehow made up for years spent out of the field.

"And majored in business."

"I'll pay you double. And you'll have your own team, and one of the trainees can handle things while you're gone." The combined offer made Phil pause, and Pepper, being the businesswoman she was, sensed weakness. "Come on, Phil—it'll only be for a couple of weeks, just until they can get by without you. Think of it as a vacation."

The fact that he obviously needed a vacation went unmentioned, and the courtesy combined with the earnest expression on her face made him give in. Phil sighed.

"Triple time, and I'll do it."

She beamed.

"Done."

****

Despite Pepper's promise of a "couple weeks" of work, it took Phil almost that long just to get his promised team of publicists in one place. It wasn't Pepper's fault and it wasn't Human Resources' fault, but after nearly four days of rigorous interviews and careful planning, it was revealed that the floor intended for Phil's new (temporary) department was actually half a floor, soon to be a quarter of a floor. Needless to say, Phil's large upstairs office didn't make the journey with him, and it took another week before what little space they did have was appropriately walled and curtained off to give the semblance of a set of offices, albeit ones designed by people who were vehemently against doors that weren't made of ten dollar curtains from Wal-Mart. Phil's "office" was bigger than most of the rest, but it was a barely noticeable fact when the space was filled with a vast desk and more papers than Phil had seen even in his intern days. Candice and Mario, his favorites of the new hires, each shared a cubicle wall with him, and he rather thought that if they both went to break at the same time, his entire office might collapse. 

It would have to do, and with the rearrangements and occupation of part of the 55th floor complete, Phil began an even harder task: getting _the Avengers_ in one place.

After five days of chasing the famed superheroes back and forth across the state, trailed by overeager publicists in training, he had managed to catch only Tony Stark, and that was by accident. The next morning, Phil walked into Pepper's office and told her that he quit.

Her mouth dropped open in shock, and he felt vindicated, right up until she recovered enough to look gentle and understanding. It weakened his resolve somewhat.

"Phil, I know they can be difficult. But try to understand, they all lead very busy lives."

"I know, Ms. Potts." If anyone understood the limits of spare time, it was Phil. "But that's exactly my point. We can't wait until an emergency to do this. Good publicity isn't about damage control; it's about making it so that damage control isn't necessary."

Pepper shot him a look, surprised and amused at the same time.

"I take it you've been researching?"

"You're paying me," Phil said with a small smile. "The least I can do is be good at my job."

Pepper bit her lip, a soft indent. She hesitated for less than a minute.

"I'll call Tony," she said into the silence, and Phil felt the tension leave his shoulders for the first time in weeks. It came right back after her short conversation ended and she looked at him with sympathy.

"They'll be on the 81st floor in fifteen minutes. Go to the side elevator, state your name, and security will let you up."

Phil thanked her, grabbed his briefcase, and left. He had conflicting reactions to the announcement that the Avengers were actually there, in that building and at that moment. The strongest reaction was annoyance, given how long he'd been looking for them, but he let relief overtake him as he stepped into the elevator. Despite the fact that there was still an enormous amount of work in front of him, the end was in sight.

The doors closed, and Phil stated his name without prompting.

"Where to, sir?" asked a voice, pleasantly neutral and faintly accented, and Phil twitched. He'd forgotten the private floors were all carefully monitored by one of Stark's A.I. creations, and it was a little unnerving at first.

"Floor 81, please. Ah, JARVIS."

The elevator began moving upwards, perfectly smooth and silent. Phil appreciated the lack of elevator music, even though the somber atmosphere made his palms sweat.

Stepping out on the 81st floor and seeing the lavish surroundings would have been a shock to anyone who wasn't used to the luxury of Stark Tower, but even Phil, with his familiarity with the offices below, was a little surprised. He wouldn't call the huge studio room he now stood in a waiting room exactly, considering it was stocked full of everything the average person dreamed of having in their living room, but it still gave the impression of not showing the whole picture. When Phil tried one of the four doors along the wall, he found it locked, confirming his suspicions.

The last door to his right gave a rattle, and Phil barely had enough time to turn before a stream of people began quietly trickling in, expressions ranging from suspicious to curious as they lined the wall furthest from him. Phil felt an unexpected jolt of nervous excitement that he covered by focusing his attention on opening his briefcase while they all settled. When he turned, papers in hand, they were all staring at him.

Phil recognized four of the five standing in the room, and he let out a sigh of relief. There were six Avengers, Phil knew that from the barest exposure, and he figured the unidentified, dark-haired man in the back was the archer who usually kept out of camera range, and the missing one was the Hulk. Phil couldn't say he was disappointed.

"Well, I'm glad to see no one invited the Hulk."

The man in the back raised his hand, a bitter expression on his face, and Phil was shocked to find he actually _did_ recognize him. Then again, Phil had met Dr. Banner only once: the first day he'd moved into the Tower, trailed by Tony Stark. Phil had thought he worked in R &D.

"Actually, that's me. Well, some of the time."

Phil absorbed that, feeling dazed. The idea that the Hulk was a transformed human when popular theory had thought he was an alien was shocking, but not impossible. Phil thought this would be easier to market, comparatively.

Then he frowned.

"Then where—"

The door opened behind him, and Phil turned at the sound, nearly colliding with Clint from Toolie's bar.

****

There was a moment where, Phil was sure, they both had equally confused and horrified expressions on their faces. It was a moment for the record books, because no one had quite gotten the drop on Phil Coulson since middle school, and this was significantly more awkward than being stood up at junior prom. Times five, he guessed.

Phil handled it as well as could be expected, and he immediately stuck out his hand, hoping the flush on his cheeks didn't show.

"Good morning. My name's Coulson, and I'm your new public relations manager. You must be Hawkeye."

For a moment, it didn't look like Hawkeye would go for it, for the unspoken agreement to pretend they'd never set eyes on each other. Then, cautiously, he returned the handshake.

"Clint Barton. Nice to meet you."

He sounded very cool, but his handshake was firm, professional, and brief, and he wasted no time in going to stand by the others. Phil was grateful, or at least he was until Captain Rogers spoke up, a frown marring his extremely handsome face.

"Public relations manager?" He didn't sound confused, exactly, but he did sound hesitant. "Is there something wrong?"

"Yes, but not the sort of problem you're thinking of, Captain." Phil knew the history behind the concern, of course, had known it since he was eight. But that, he supposed, was a story for another time, possibly never. "The Avengers are just not very popular right now."

Stark snorted in disbelief from his position on the couch, which was strange considering he was the one who had requested this meeting and the hellish weeks that would no doubt follow.

"Popularity isn't the problem, Coulson. Have you seen the action figures?"

Phil took a small amount of glee in pulling out the polls he'd printed specifically for this occasion.

"Popularity _is_ the problem, Mr. Stark, considering the last public poll had The Avengers falling somewhere behind Doctor Doom after your last encounter." Stark, as he'd expected, snapped out of his languid lounging immediately, desperately grabbing for the papers Phil held. Phil pulled out his spares and continued, distributing a copy to each of them. "Novelty toys and action figures don't tell the whole story, and the good the Avengers do is getting lost underneath property damage, reclusive tendencies, and public perception of vigilantism." Phil shook his head, aware that the whole story was told very clearly in the full-color sheets he'd prepared. "The truth is, your team is just months away from supervillain territory."

The room was silent when he'd finished, and the reactions varied between shock and anger. Captain Rogers looked somewhere in the realm of heartbroken, and it made Phil feel a reflexive twinge of guilt that he quickly pushed aside. The way he described it may have been harsh, but as weeks of research had shown, it was also a completely accurate, if dismal, picture. In the silence, Phil felt for the first time that he was actually doing work that _needed_ to be done, that was for the good of mankind. He resolutely squashed the feeling down; it was only a temporary placement, after all.

"Are there any questions?"

No one seemed eager to speak, and it was finally the Black Widow that raised her hand. Phil recognized her by the gleam of red hair, but if he hadn't already known she would be here, he thought the jeans and casual posture would have made her completely indistinguishable from the crowd. It was alarming.

"Yes. What's the plan?" she asked, and her voice was smooth, nearly disinterested. Her previous reaction betrayed her, however; she had looked angrier than all of them when he'd made his announcement.

"We change your image, and we let your identities out." Phil held up his hands to forestall the expected protests. "I don't mean your names. If you want to keep it secret, you can. In fact, all information released will be strictly what you choose to reveal. I mean that we let the public know you, not just the superheroes you represent." That seemed to mollify them somewhat, but Phil expected that would change in the next few days. No one liked baring their soul, much less to millions of strangers. "We'll also have to work out some sort of fund, and make it highly public. Perhaps an insurance option for Avengers-related damages."

The insurance proposal seemed to intrigue Stark, which was better than Phil had hoped. The rest of them were slower to come to an agreement, in part because two of the remaining five weren't entirely sure what it entailed. Thor—and yes, his name actually was _Thor_ —seemed mostly intrigued that public opinion was something that was regularly swayed rather than commanded, and considering Captain Rogers's experiences on the USO Tour in the forties, Phil was mostly just grateful he didn't run from the room when press releases were mentioned. The Black Widow—Natasha Romanoff, as she introduced herself—and Dr. Banner were both relatively calm, and Phil decided he would try to work with them first. Clint Barton stayed mostly silent the entire time, but since there was still awkwardness there, Phil ignored it as best he could.

It would pass. Probably.


	3. Chapter 3

Phil wasn't exactly sure how it happened, but over the course of their first meeting, he wound up with limited access to the Avengers common rooms, permission to call them as necessary, and full use of the hidden elevator reserved specifically for private gatherings. He didn't know what to say or how to turn the offer down, and Stark seemed strangely insistent that it may be necessary at some point. Phil decided it was best not to argue, and told himself he just wouldn't abuse the privilege. 

The next morning saw Phil entering the elevator, on his way to his hastily arranged appointment with Dr. Banner. No one seemed surprised that Phil wanted to work with Banner first, but Phil suspected they thought his motives were less flattering than they actually were. The truth was that Phil was practical rather than curious; it was the team's biggest secret, so it would require the most delicate handling. The most time. Phil wanted it out before the independent press caught wind of a story, and Banner, at least, seemed to agree.

Phil knocked three times on the first door he came to on floor 85, and the response was a mad scramble of activity in the other room. After a minute or so, the door opened just enough to catch on a chain latch. That was a little funny to Phil—a chain latch, in a building with the most high-tech security in the country?—but it was explained when Banner unlocked and opened the door completely, revealing a perfectly average apartment. At least, it looked that way at first glance; the longer Phil studied it, the more he could see that the furniture was clearly well-made and the decorations balanced perfectly in color and scale. A high class apartment, then, if one that went out of its way to seem a bit boring, a bit ordinary. Phil imagined it described Banner perfectly, and he must have smiled, because Banner smiled tentatively back.

"Mr. Coulson," he said, nodding as he stepped aside. "Sorry it took so long to answer—I'm cooking."

Phil could smell it in the air, spices and garlic and bread, and his stomach nearly rumbled. _Stop that_ , he told himself. _You just had breakfast._

Phil managed to keep a perfectly straight face when Banner pulled the homemade— _homemade_ —pizza from the oven, but his will faltered when a plate was pushed towards him.

"You can have some, if you want."

Phil caved, but limited himself to one slice. It wasn't perfect and the best part was easily the crust, but the tangy sauce and crisp vegetables were equally welcome after a quick breakfast of vending machine food. All vegetables and no meat, Phil noticed, and it gave him an opening.

"Are you a vegetarian?"

"I try to be." Banner smiled faintly, and curled a string of cheese back onto his slice of pizza. "Of course, beggars can't be choosers."

The comment piqued Phil's curiosity for reasons entirely unrelated to his assigned task, and it led into forty-five minutes of explanation about the accident that had created the Hulk and the years that followed. Banner was surprisingly open about what sounded like a traumatic experience, but—as he quietly explained when Phil asked—when you get used to waking up naked after tearing through buildings, it seemed a little silly to be private about the details.

Phil thought that was the kind of bravery that more people needed, and he found himself liking Banner more than he'd expected. More importantly, Phil could see the making of a good story; if handled properly, Banner wouldn't be very hard to sell to the public. He might even be a favorite.

It was only when Phil was standing up to leave that he had doubts, but that was mostly because Banner stopped him.

"You don't have to print any of that," Banner said quietly, more a murmur to his pizza than anything else. "I mean, if you think it would work better. I know the public has gotten used to seeing the Other Guy as a sort of animal and…well, he doesn't have to be well-liked. Just effective."

"Dr. Banner, you're too nice of a person to spend your life playing a trained monkey." Banner was startled into a smile by the comment, and Phil pressed on. "The story will be fine. Better than fine. And, like I said, I won't run it if you don't want me to. Just think about it."

Banner seemed mostly appeased, and Phil counted it a job well done. He was running through possible ways to release the story when he stepped inside the elevator, lost in thought, and he realized only after the doors had closed that he wasn't its only occupant. He wasn't sure how to feel when he turned and saw Clint standing quietly to one side, looking perhaps overly casual in a dark t-shirt and scruffy jeans, but Phil was a consummate professional. He gave a friendly nod.

"Mr. Barton."

Clint, surprisingly, responded by smiling the same open smile Phil had seen once before. 

"Well, technically it's Agent Barton, but don't go spreading that around." Clint rubbed a hand against the back of his head. "You can call me Clint, if you want."

It was a minor concession, and Phil nodded again. "Clint then."

They descended into awkward silence, and Phil dreaded the minutes it would take to reach the ground floor. The floors and seconds ticked by, and he was relieved when Clint broke the silence quickly.

"I've been trying to find a way to apologize. About the other night." Phil felt his mouth go slack with surprise, but he quickly snapped it closed. Given his loss of composure, he was grateful that Clint seemed to be making his apology to the floor. "I'm sorry, if you felt like I was harassing you. I never would have hit on you if I'd known you were part of the team." He glanced up quickly, met Phil's eyes, and then looked back down. "Of publicists. You know."

It was a completely heartfelt and uncomfortable apology, and it made Phil smile for some reason he couldn't place. Just like that, the awkwardness melted away.

"I was having a bad night," he said in return, and he was rewarded with another quick smile. Phil told himself he was a fool for noticing how nice it was, even as the fact that he had _noticed_ startled him.

"Okay, so…good. That's good." Clint cleared his throat, and the smile disappeared. "Stark wanted to talk to you, by the way. About your insurance idea. He asked me to tell you."

Phil was puzzled by the abrupt change in subject, and he frowned as the elevator dinged impatiently when they arrived at their floor. "Oh. Thank you."

"Not a problem." Clint slouched out of the elevator first, posture almost too casual. "Catch you later, Coulson." He saluted Phil with two fingers before he turned, and Phil didn't have time to think about whether the gesture was meant to be mocking. It took only seconds for him to disappear in the crowded lobby, just another body.

It was only after he left that Phil realized he hadn't asked Clint to use his first name in return, and he just barely refrained from rubbing his eyes. This, he decided, was why he had no friends.

****

It took two days of heavy editing and careful phrasing before Banner's story was ready to go to print, and it took almost as long for Banner to reach a decision after he saw the final piece. When his concerns had thinned down to protests about the article making him seem "heroic," Phil figured he'd done his job, and he spent the next day pitching the exclusive story to every celebrity magazine he could think of. Since the country seemed perpetually starved for news about its heroes, two magazines accepted the story outright, and four others hinted about conducting their own interviews and research.

A week after Phil had spoken to the Avengers, the first character piece had been released, and the response was _phenomenal_. Sales of action figures nearly tripled overnight, Youtube became filled with grainy videos of post-battle footage of Banner stumbling and lost from the wreckage, and relatively unknown articles and papers about Banner's previous work were accessed over a million times in the course of a single day. The focus wasn't entirely positive—naturally there was backlash for damages now that the Hulk had been revealed to be human—but by and large, the public attitude had shifted from neutral to positive for the Hulk.

When Stark announced his Avengers Damage Insurance plan the next day, the improved public perception went on to cover the entire team, and Phil watched the aftermath, kicked back in his barely-office with Chinese takeout and a load off his shoulders. If anyone had any comments about his sock-covered feet propped on the edge of his desk, they didn't say anything to him while he ate his cashew chicken, and it was nice for a change. He never had time to himself in the main offices of Stark Industries, and he certainly never had time for a lunch break. Maybe it was the curtain door; after all, it was hard to knock on a curtain and therefore politely interrupt.

He had barely completed the thought when Mario popped his head in, hair a squashed mess of dark curls and his glasses slightly askew.

"Sir? One of the Avengers is here to see you."

Phil sighed, and cast the barest forlorn glance at his remaining food.

"Send them in." He dropped his feet to the floor and made himself presentable enough. He suspected it was Stark, because it had been Stark at every interruption for the past three days.

It took some effort not to show his surprise when the Avenger in question turned out to be Clint, because Clint—while not exactly avoiding him—hadn't dropped by his office once since they'd officially met.

"Hey Coulson," he said, as easily as if he did it every day. "Can I ask you a question?" 

He tucked his hands into snug jean pockets while he waited, lingering at the doorway, and Phil was at a loss. He shrugged.

"Go ahead. And come in." Phil reached for his food again, taking a guess that "casual" was the way to go with Clint. It seemed confirmed when Clint shifted a little, relaxing his shoulders.

"We're not doing some sort of photo shoot or anything, right?" The question seemed to come out of nowhere to Phil, and Clint hurried on. "Because I can't do that, I mean. Official spy business, and all."

Phil thought about it. A photo shoot would have been a good idea if the Avengers had been normal celebrities, but that was a far cry from reality, and Clint had a point.

"If we do, you and Ms. Romanoff are excused." Phil paused, thoughtfully chewing a piece of chicken. "Out of curiosity, where did you get that idea?"

Clint grimaced and leaned slightly against the desk, strategically placing his hip and hands on the few inches of wood not covered by papers. The muscles of his legs flexed noticeably behind denim, and Phil crunched a cashew harder than strictly necessary.

"Where else? Stark is chomping at the bit about something, and looking more like a fashion plate than usual. I think he was annoyed you didn't do his interview first."

Phil snorted, and Clint's expression became a grin.

"Tell Stark his interview will happen when I have questions for him." It was easier than admitting that the news was oversaturated with his life and probably would be for a while. "I was thinking of covering Ms. Romanoff next, although that depends on how Dr. Banner reacts to his article. She may not be eager to do it."

"Banner loves it," Clint said immediately, "and Nat was wondering about that. She figured it would be either her or Steve." Clint looked at him for a second, drumming his fingers against wood in a nervous gesture. "If I can give you a piece of advice, though, I wouldn't try to ask her about her past. Just…don't. And don't let her tell you about it, either."

Phil raised an eyebrow, because the advice seemed out of place and counterintuitive for an interview. He nodded anyway; he'd think of something.

"I won't." Phil smiled slightly, twirling his chopsticks between two fingers. "Thanks for the tip."

Clint nodded, looking faintly embarrassed. It was…charming.

"You want another tip?" His expression was serious, and Phil nodded immediately. He was surprised when Clint tapped a finger against the red and gold package of rice still on Phil's desk, serious facade immediately cracking. "Golden Medallion, really?"

"Enough MSG for the whole family," Phil said, voice deadpan, and he ate another piece of chicken. Clint laughed and held up both hands, a clear sign of surrender.

"As long as you're sure." His eyes flicked to the floor, and the grin returned. "Love the socks, by the way."

Phil looked down in reflex to see his feet unhidden by the desk. His Disney Dalmatian sock-covered feet, because he truly did love his niece. An oversight—his other desk would have hidden them.

He looked up to reply, uncertain what his response should be even as he did, and he was surprised to find Clint gone. Phil was torn between grateful and regretful, because on the one hand, he wasn't sure if the comment was serious or not, and he didn't want to get into that discussion.

On the other hand, Phil hadn't had a chance to watch him leave.

****

It took a little over half a day of relaxation before the public relations department descended into the sort of hell Phil was used to, and damage control became a round-the-clock- job. Plans of using his media manipulation downtime to check on Pepper and her temporary but very personable PA were lost somewhere between fielding overly invested magazines and fielding new and overeager Hulk fans. It was, to his amusement, much like life had been before he'd gotten this particular job with this particular team, even if the names had changed. The biggest difference was that now, when he was sick of answering the phone, he could ask Mario or Candice to do it. And he left his work in the office, most nights.

It was a nice change, and it relieved the stress just enough that when he walked into his office the next day and Romanoff announced her presence by closing the curtain behind him, he didn't jump out of his very expensive loafers. 

Instead, Phil took a sip of his coffee, then calmly sat behind his desk and nodded a greeting. 

"Hello, Ms. Romanoff. How can I help you?"

She responded by handing him a thick brown file folder, secured with a rubber band. It seemed old-fashioned, and conjured an image of old detective movies. Phil accepted it reluctantly, and when he lifted up one corner to peek at the contents, he found page upon page of dense text, heavily censored with a black marker. Phil looked up, certain his confusion was obvious on his face.

"It's the non-classified portion of my S.H.I.E.L.D. file," she explained, arms crossed over her simple blouse. "It contains all of my backstory that's safe to print. Did you need anything else for this interview?"

Phil closed the folder and sighed, pushing it to the nearest corner of his desk.

"Ms. Romanoff," he said, and he took note of the fact she didn't correct him one way or another. "The point is to allow the public to know you, not to present them with a biography. You don't have to reveal anything you don't want to, now or later."

She smiled, and it was perfectly pleasant. It also made her look as young as any of the interns, and Phil had no doubt the effect was on purpose.

"The media isn't that particular, Mr. Coulson. I appreciate the courtesy, but it's not necessary." She nodded to the file. "That's my story. You can print it, or not."

Phil shrugged as though it made no difference, and refrained from saying that she was being the most cooperatively stubborn person he'd ever met.

"Barton told me about this." She stiffened, and Phil hoped he hadn't just made a huge mistake. "He said not to ask about your past, and not to accept," he waved a hand at the folder, " _this_. It's not my business."

She didn't look surprised, but Phil doubted he'd be able to tell even if she was. All the same, when he handed her the folder back, she took it with a motion too quick to be as casual as she otherwise seemed. Phil gestured her to one of the two chairs in the room, and she sat gingerly on the beige seat.

"Then what do you want to talk about?" she asked, sounding suspicious. 

Phil wondered how often that same question had been asked, with much worse consequences. Judging by the amount of black he'd seen in that folder, he was guessing more times than he could count.

He took a sip of his coffee, and pulled out a notebook, already lined with questions. Some things, he figured, were better done by hand.

"How about your future?"

She answered his questions, however reluctantly, and even though it took all day to pry out a solid five pages of honesty and plans, Phil considered it a day well spent, if an exhausting one.

It wasn't until he was making his final note and Romanoff didn't leave immediately that he questioned her motive for coming here at all. Her given reason didn't quite fit, not when she lingered expectantly at the exit, hand hovering indecisively over the floppy curtain.

He waited and she turned back around, spinning neatly on one heel.

"You know, you're not what I expected." Romanoff said, a leading opening although she waited until she had his full attention before continuing. "Stark seems to think you're some sort of dull workaholic."

The comment was said idly, as if she was gauging his reaction, and Phil told himself not to take it personally. He wasn't entirely sure Stark was wrong, anyway.

"That so?" he asked mildly. When she didn't seem in a hurry to leave or continue, he set his pen down and folded his hands. Romanoff smiled, a quirk of lips that was only a little less brilliant than the first smile she'd given him. 

"It is. Of course, Stark thinks almost everyone is dull, and I know from experience that Stark Industries is full of workaholics." Phil didn't pursue that comment, although she was clearly expecting him to. "But that wasn't what I meant. You seem…nice."

It didn't sound exactly like a compliment, but Phil had no idea how else he was supposed to take it. He didn't know her well enough to tell, but he could have sworn she sounded baffled. He wondered if the trait was so rare, or if she was surprised by him in particular.

"Thank you?" he tried, and she nodded seriously.

"You're welcome. Let me know when the piece is finished, yes?"

She left after Phil's nod, and Phil couldn't help feeling like he'd missed something important.


	4. Chapter 4

Romanoff's article took much longer to prepare for print than Banner's had, and not because she was demanding or picky about the content. In some ways, she was too accommodating, giving her blessing too easily, and it caused Phil no end of frustration, with hours spent wondering if she had fed him a tale of smoke after all. In the end, he decided it didn't matter; whatever the case, the story seemed believable enough, and it presented a far friendlier face than that of the deadly Black Widow. Phil didn't expect this article to cause waves on its own, but he did expect increased interest, maybe even as much as Banner's article had generated. For that, it was perfect…but despite this certainty, when Phil printed out his sample copies of the final piece, he found himself hesitating. 

It bothered him, and as he flipped through his notes for the tenth time that hour, he wondered if the problem was that her story seemed a little _too_ perfect for its purpose. It was something he hadn't considered before, and on impulse, he flipped back to the first page of his notes, where she named her best friend. It was worth a shot.

Before he could talk himself out of it, Phil picked up his company phone and dialed the extension for the Avengers' common floor. The phone barely rang once before it was picked up.

"JARVIS speaking. How may I help you, Mr. Coulson?"

"Would you ask Hawkeye to come downstairs and speak with me, please, at his earliest convenience?" JARVIS confirmed the request while Phil nodded, drumming his fingers alongside the paper copies. The conversation was short, and it ended with a relayed promise from Clint that he would be there are soon as he could.

What that meant, Phil had no idea, and so he was surprised when—after planning for the worst case scenario and all but booking his day full with work—Clint arrived in less than half an hour. He wasn't dressed as casually as the last time they'd ran into each other, and Phil was forced to wonder at the occasion. In his few first impressions, Clint hadn't seemed like a fan of button downs or slacks.

Clint clearly read his expression, because he rolled his eyes and tugged self-consciously at the cuffs around his wrists.

"Natasha's idea—she seems to think I need to look like a business person instead of the janitor of the building. Ha. As if Stark doesn't have the place cleaned by robots."

"There are choices that would suit you better," Phil said, because while the outfit didn't look bad, Clint looked about as uncomfortable as he'd ever seen. Clint smiled gratefully, and Phil waved him towards a chair as he tried to keep from smiling back. "But we can talk about that later. I'd like your input on something first."

Clint sat, legs wide apart and shirt pulling across his shoulders as he leaned back. The buttons held on for dear life, and Phil thought, again, that the outfit really didn't suit him. Clint continued to smile at him, and Phil tugged on his tie, feeling a little warm.

"As you know, I interviewed Ms. Romanoff a week or so ago." Clint nodded, and Phil held out a copy of the article. "I'd like your opinion, if you don't mind." Phil didn't mention his suspicions or doubts about the content, and he was pleased when Clint accepted the article without asking for them. He took the pages from his hands and settled in to read, the expression on his face surprisingly serious.

It took longer than Phil would have expected, Clint giving each page more time than Phil thought was warranted, but he didn't say anything. When Clint finally finished the last page, he shrugged, closing it with a snap.

"I like it. It's all very Natasha too." Phil's shoulders sagged minutely in relief, and he had no doubt that _Hawkeye_ noticed. "Did you write it?"

"The first draft," Phil said, and he held out his hand. Clint didn't hand the papers over, instead taking the time to re-read a few lines in the back. "Of course, after it went the rounds in this department, there's very little of the original left."

Clint snorted. "Correcting _you_? Sounds brave."

Phil wasn't sure how to take the comment, and he bristled under his suit. Thankfully, Clint changed the subject.

"I can't believe you got her to talk about what she wanted to do when retires, though. Nat never talks like that."

"It wasn't easy," Phil said flatly. Clint's lips twitched. "But I think it was worth it."

Clint nodded, and he flipped the pages again.

"I like this last line especially, by the way." Clint pointed at it, short fingernail tapping insistently near a not-quite quote. _Love is for children, but so is the Boogeyman. That doesn't make them less real._

Phil nearly groaned.

"That," he said, pinching the bridge of his nose, "is Mario's fault."

Clint looked entirely unconvinced, and he sounded even less so.

"Sure it is. You can't fool me, Coulson—under that very nice suit beats the heart of a romantic, doesn't it?"

"You don't know what's under my suit," Phil said, realizing how suggestive the statement was a second after he said it. Clint, fortunately, just chuckled. 

"That's true, but you'd be surprised how good I am at judging character." Phil must have looked skeptical, because Clint continued. "Take Natasha, for instance: best friend I've ever had, and all I had to do was let her shoot me." 

Phil's eyebrow climbed nearly to his hairline, but he very deliberately didn't pursue the statement. Clint looked like he was waiting for it, and Phil took the opportunity to snatch the papers from his hands. The surprise on his face was worth the paper cut.

"Thank you for your input, Clint. That's all I needed."

Clint rolled his eyes, and if Phil wasn't mistaken, the look on his face was fond. It baffled him, and Phil looked down at his papers, feeling a little awkward.

"Sure, no problem." He stood, but paused before leaving. "Hey Coulson…are you having lunch today?"

Phil looked up, but he couldn't place the expression on Clint's face.

"I ate about an hour ago." It had been a rushed event, a bagel with light cream cheese and lettuce, but it had been all he'd time for. "Maybe another time."

Clint nodded in perfect understanding, and Phil—oddly enough—almost regretted that he wasn't starving at the moment. 

"Sure, another time."

Clint left with a jaunty wave, and Phil went back to his work, refusing to wonder about the language of spies.

****

Phil would have liked to say that selling Romanoff's story to the public was just as easy as Banner's had been, but it took him only minutes to realize it wasn't that simple. While Banner's story had essentially been cast out in the media ocean to see if there was a bite, Romanoff's story was both more personal and less typical than the average celebrity fare. Phil didn't try the gossip magazines this time, sensing it would require more delicate handling than the full-color scandal sheets could provide. Unfortunately, the piece was also not the ideal for magazines usually aimed at women _or_ men, showing neither a very feminine nor a very sexualized woman. It left Phil in a quandary, because while he could've at least offered Banner's article to a science magazine if all else failed, there was hardly a _Spies Weekly_ that he could contact for Romanoff.

It took a few days to find his answer, but in the end, Phil went the exact opposite direction to what he'd originally planned: teen magazines. It was an impulse, spurred mostly by thoughts of his niece entering junior high separate from her friends, but when the tentative offer was accepted immediately by _Seventeen_ and _Elle_ , Phil figured he'd made the right choice. The article came out in full splashy color, and—with Romanoff's permission—it even contained a few photographs of her looking her most casual, makeup expertly done to make her look both less glamorous and less different from others who had graced those pages. It was a risk, but nobody on the Avengers or in the shady agency the Black Widow worked for seemed to find issue with it; apparently, nobody expected villains to read teen magazines. Phil didn't argue, and simply left that issue to the specialists.

The new publicity led to an exhausting several days of backlash. It was mostly positive—some parents found Romanoff to be a role model, while others noticeably didn't for mostly bizarre reasons—but it had more success than he'd been hoping for. After the magazine had been out for three days, Phil went out of his way to designate a representative just for her fan mail, alongside Banner's and the already-existing position of Stark's mail handler. The office quieted down for a few days again, but this time, Phil wasn't on the receiving end of the leisure time; not twelve hours after the magazines had become available in stores, he was inundated with calls for Romanoff to have live interviews on popular daytime television shows, and small guest appearances in other running shows. Phil was relieved to be able to tell them all that he would have to get back to them, but the effort of being the middle manager was always a strain.

By the end of the first day, Phil had to drag himself home. By the end of the second day, he didn't bother—it was just easier that way, and he was sure his plants would understand. He wasn't surprised, however, that Pepper wound up calling him the next morning, voice more than a little tight. He agreed not to sleep at the office anymore—while cursing JARVIS for tattling, that rat—but that didn't mean his days were any shorter or easier.

When he left his desk on the fourth day, he ran into Thor, and was more or less ambushed by the strangest interview he'd ever conducted. The format was more like a ballad and seemed almost scripted, and Phil took it for the easy job it was, resolving to get security footage for the exact wording later. Finding a publication for the article would be difficult (he resisted, just barely, the urge to send it out to the local weather station) but it was the first moment of relief he'd had in days.

The second, surprisingly, was waiting at his desk when he returned. Or rather, a small takeout container of Golden Medallion was waiting at his desk, marked with a cheery pink post-it note, topped with a set of chopsticks. When he opened the container, he was hit in the face with fragrant steam and the sight of cashew chicken. His stomach rumbled.

The post-it was a welcome explanation, but one, Phil found, he didn't really need.

_Thanks for all your work! Hope you enjoy your MSG, because it's definitely better than nothing. Just give me a call if you ever need more._

_Clint Barton (212-964-4154)_

_P.S. Natasha said you can call her 'Natasha' (don't try Nat, though, trust me)_

Phil tucked the note inside his desk drawer, and as he practically inhaled his food, he found himself smiling.

****

Phil was no longer surprised when things went abruptly downhill, but that didn't mean he'd been expecting it so soon, after a little over five weeks on the job. He should have guessed, of course—with three articles cast to the media circus, the issue had been accelerated—but that didn't mean he was prepared for it the minute he stepped into the office. It also didn't mean he'd been expecting to spend all morning at it, tied to his desk by the fact they kept calling his work phone instead of his cell.

Convincing a corporation that the Avengers couldn't actually attend their event or endorse their product was, he found, a sport fit for the Olympics.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Burbury," Phil repeated, for the fifth time. "But the Avengers can't afford to be in the public eye in quite that way."

The displeased buzzing in his ear had ceased being words a long time ago, and Phil had stopped taking notes around the time his two morning coffee breaks and his fifteen minute lunch had disappeared. By now, he was nodding along and just barely refraining from perforating his notepad with his pen. Around the third time the representative started harping about Natasha's appearance in her article and how it wasn't representing America in the best light (what that meant, Phil had truly no idea) he gave up the effort.

When Stark burst through his curtain door, giving Phil an excuse to cut off the conversation, it was quite possibly the first time Phil had ever been happy to see him. He hung up the phone more gently than he would have ten minutes ago, and even managed a polite smile.

"How can I help you, Mr. Stark?" The curtain moved, and Phil was surprised to find him trailed by Captain Rogers. "And you, Captain?"

Stark raised his arms in exasperation, the action pulling at the shoulders of his red— _red_ —suit. Well, Pepper had never claimed he had the best taste.

"Maybe I just wanted to meet the man behind the curtain."

Captain Rogers looked excited for a moment, and then the expression faded into something almost sheepish. Phil shot him a look, and received a shrug in return.

"I understood that reference."

Phil didn't comment, and Stark ignored them both.

"And by meet you, of course, I mean I've been waiting for my interview for, like, days now." Stark crossed his arms, looking petulant. "I do have a busy schedule, you know. I can't wait around forever."

Phil tapped his pen lightly on his desk, and thought about it.

"You may be right." Stark looked positively gleeful, and Phil hurriedly continued. "I'll get to you after I collect material for Clint's interview." He shot an apologetic look at Rogers. "I'm sorry, but I'm afraid yours is going to be last, Captain."

Rogers waved the apology away, looking more relieved than upset by the news.

"It's no problem, really. And please, call me Steve."

Phil smiled, feeling flattered, and Stark rolled his eyes.

"I'm afraid I need a more exact date than that, Coulson." Stark picked at a loose thread in his coat, putting far too much effort into looking casual. "Pepper's wondering when she'll get her assistant back, you know."

Phil's heart sped up a strange extra beat, and he shook his head.

"No, she's not." Darcy, to Phil's knowledge, was doing just fine in the position. "However, I'll be sure to send her a schedule when I have a better idea of future projects."

Stark looked disgruntled at that, ready to protest, and Steve's presence was suddenly explained when he easily maneuvered him back towards the door.

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Coulson."

Phil nodded, watching them leave and feeling strangely depressed. It wasn't a feeling he was used to outside of the occasional night spent at Toolie's, and that hadn't happened for weeks. The thought gave him pause. _Weeks_ : that was strange for an entirely different reason.

Phil chose not to analyze it, and instead picked up his cell, dialing the number he'd found scratched on a post-it note just days prior. Clint picked up on the third ring.

"Clint? This is Phil Coulson." Phil glanced at his papers, at his _temporary_ work, and he barely refrained from sighing. "I was wondering if you had plans for the next hour, because I think I owe you lunch."


	5. Chapter 5

Clint was downstairs in fifteen minutes, and the first words out of his mouth were, "You don't actually owe me lunch, you know. I just didn't want you to starve to death."

Phil patted his belly, and Clint's eyes noticeably followed the gesture. 

"I think you're covered on that front, but thank you for the effort."

Clint chuckled, the sound a little strained. "Oh, you say that now. Wait until you hear one of Thor's eight-hour ballads that overlap lunch. They're interesting, don't get me wrong, but it definitely takes some getting used to."

"I understand perfectly—I have a cousin who does freeform poetry."

Clint smiled, seemingly truly interested as he followed him out to the elevator. "Yeah? And how's that?"

"Better than you might expect." To Phil's surprise, he found himself talking about Jeremy's hit-or-miss poetry for almost the entire ride down. Considering the subject, the conversation wrung more than a few laughs from them both, although Phil tried his best to maintain his professionalism for most of the walk beyond that. Operating on instinct, Phil led Clint to a small burger joint, notable only for the fact that they had some of the messiest chili burgers he'd ever had.

Clint, naturally, was thrilled.

"Oh, hey, I know this place!"

Phil smiled. "I figured. You look like a burger guy."

"I am. All about the meat, that's me." Clint waggled his eyebrows, and Phil looked away to hide his smile. It probably didn't work. "But you don't look like a burger guy."

Phil didn't take it personally; by now he'd guessed that Clint didn't mean these things as insults.

"I went to college," he said, and he could have kicked himself when Clint's face shuttered. That wasn't the way he'd wanted to begin this interview, or this lunch. "And by that I mean I survived on cheap burgers and instant meals for four years, just like any other poor student."

Clint brightened a little. "Oh yeah, I know how that is. You wouldn't believe the things I've learned to cook with just condiments and noodles."

Phil made a face, eliciting another laugh. They placed their orders—Phil, conscious of his suit, tried to pick the item that would leave the smallest stains, most likely a wasted effort—and it wasn't until they were each sliding into their own bench that Phil tried to pick the conversation up again, gearing it the direction he intended.

"Clint." Clint looked at him, teeth closed firmly around his straw. "This may not be the best time, but now that Natasha and Thor's articles are both out, I was hoping to talk to you next."

"Yeah, that's what I figured." Clint sipped his cola, looking thoughtful and maybe just a little disappointed. "I can't say I'm eager to be in the public eye—I mean, I'm really not—but you gotta do what you gotta do."

Phil stirred his soda, popping carbonated bubbles and listening to the clink of ice. It didn't sound like an opening, and it certainly didn't sound like this was going to be easy. And Phil…Phil liked Clint, in a completely friendly way, so prying the knowledge out wasn't something he was exactly looking forward to.

Phil decided to go the route of least resistance, and when their burgers arrived, he waited until Clint had taken a bite before speaking.

"You know, I never wanted to work in an office." He lifted his own burger, ignoring Clint's look. "For some reason, I always thought I'd go into the military."

They chewed in the silence, and it was Clint who spoke first, setting his too-rare hamburger down in order to better gesture with a fry.

"What happened?"

"Softball injury, bum knee. It's fine now, but I definitely missed my peak years, and by the time the therapy had done much good, I was already headed here." It was more complicated than that, and not nearly as easy as Phil knew he made it sound. If he concentrated, he could remember every last painful attempt to run when his body refused, to move when every muscle screamed, how much it hurt to stand for more than a few minutes during high school graduation. It was almost funny how he'd ended up in an office, sitting in a chair, when he'd wanted anything but that when he was younger. 

But these things happened, and he said as much, knowing what reaction the story usually got when he shared it. When he looked up, however, Clint looked interested but not pitying or skeptical, and Phil appreciated it. He also stole a fry from Phil's plate even though he had more than enough left on his own, and the effort of fending off the thievery was distraction enough for them both.

It wasn't until they were halfway through their meals that Phil's efforts at opening the conversation seemed to pay off, with Clint stirring a fry in ketchup with far too much concentration and speaking almost to himself.

"I grew up in the circus. And I never finished school. Not even junior high."

Phil kept his face carefully blank, and that seemed to be all the encouragement Clint needed. The rest of the story poured out, and Phil listened carefully, both because it was his job and because he _liked_ Clint. When he seemed to run out of steam, Phil just folded his hands.

In a way, Clint's life was a perfect underdog story, filled with adventure and mistakes and imperfections. Phil had no doubt it would sell well; it might even be the best of the lot.

Except, Phil had noticed the flash of pain in Clint's eyes when he spoke about life after the circus, and the way he unconsciously flexed his hand opened and closed when he spoke about his family. There were old wounds there, and despite his job and the necessity of it, Phil had never wanted to prod at old wounds.

Phil didn't write down a single word, and his reasoning was clear: it was Clint's story to tell, not a magazine's.

"We don't have to do a piece on you. If you don't want to." Phil would make it work. Somehow.

Clint looked so relieved that Phil knew he'd made the right choice, and the rest of the meal passed in friendly conversation about neither of their scars.

****

Phil had always been a fan of routine and reliability, but it still surprised him when he found that over the past few weeks he'd somehow rearranged his schedule to account for an impossibly long hour lunch. What surprised him further was that said hour lunch seemed to be taken, more often than not, with Clint, who just happened to show up around the right time and happened to look hungry. Phil was too old to believe in coincidences and so he naturally knew their thrice-weekly lunches were planned, a conspiracy to get him out of the office, but he couldn't figure out the reason he went along with it. Not at first.

But then, the first time Clint was late for one of their not-quite-planned lunches and he showed up looking significantly worse for wear, Phil had some small idea of the _why_. It was a very bad idea.

"Don't they give you any armor out there in who knows where?" Phil asked, mostly to distract from the way his fingers clenched reflexively around his pen.

Clint shrugged like it wasn't anything to be bothered by, although the shrug was barely a lifting of his shoulders. He wore a bandage this time, around his waist and barely visible under his shirt. It was perilously close to delicate organs and nerves.

"It happens. I've had a string of bad luck recently, though—it isn't usually this bad."

Phil knew Clint was most likely telling the truth, because Clint—contrary to his role as a spy—had told the truth in every one of their encounters. The knowledge didn't help, and the words "I wish you'd be more careful" stuck in Phil's throat. As much as Phil liked to think of them as two people who had moved past an awkward beginning into friendship, he felt the concern would be unjustified. If he'd learned nothing else over the course of their acquaintance, he'd at least learned that Clint knew how to do his own job.

The next day, Clint didn't come to lunch at all, and Phil distracted himself by calling Tony Stark and offering him the interview he'd wanted for three and a half months. Phil regretted it almost as soon as he'd hung up, but he figured that it would at least keep his mind off things that were really none of his business. He was mostly right, because coming up with a way to sell Stark to the public took all his concentration and almost his entire afternoon.

The strategy for marketing Tony Stark, Phil decided in the end, needed to have a lot in common with the strategy involved in marketing bottled water. Convincing the public that they needed more of something they already had in abundance was difficult, and if there was anything people encountered more often than water, it was news about Tony Stark. Phil figured he was headed towards an uphill battle between existing public perception and the image he wanted them to see, and he didn't think he would win that, not without putting an original and very expensive spin on things. New packaging, in his case.

Tony Stark surprised him.

"I was thinking this article wouldn't be about me," Stark said, the first thing he said upon showing up fifteen minutes late for their arranged interview. "I mean, I'm fabulous, don't get me wrong, but it's not like that's news to anyone. But the Avengers? That's awesome."

The words, despite the usual overabundance of ego, were exactly what Phil needed, and they spent the next hour talking about Tony's opinion on the various Avengers. He had a flair for phrasing that even Phil could admit to, and the interview, surprisingly enough, did reveal information about Tony Stark that no one else had. It was no great surprise that Stark adored Banner, for instance, but the knowledge that he adored Thor nearly as much was not something Phil would have predicted. 

It was interesting, it was human, and it would _sell_. Phil pronounced the interview a success barely an hour after they got started, and Stark smiled at him, expression almost bashful.

"I knew that would do it." Phil didn't roll his eyes, but it was a near thing. "I'm surprised you had the time, though—aren't you normally canoodling with Barton in the afternoons?"

Just like that, Phil's attempt at distraction failed.

"Hardly. We have lunch together sometimes." He deliberately chose not to address what Stark meant by the rest of his sentence, because he was half-certain what 'canoodling' meant and entirely certain it didn't apply to their _friendly_ lunches.

Stark didn't look convinced, and Phil didn't entirely blame him; he didn't sound convincing.

"That so?" Phil nodded rapidly, making a show of collecting his notes as he did. Stark grinned at him. "Coulson, you're flushing."

"Dehydration," was all Phil said, the words chased by a swallow of coffee. Stark snickered.

"Yeah, sure." Stark stood, and he somehow managed to make the action of _standing_ seem smug. Phil's better opinion of him, built so carefully over the past hour, evaporated. "I suppose you don't care, then, that Barton came back about ten minutes ago? Safe and sound and hungry, I'll bet."

"It's not lunch time," Phil said flatly. It was a poor effort, and Phil gave up. "But I could always go for dinner."

Stark laughed.

"If that's an invitation, you can keep it." Stark looked disgustingly cheerful and too pleased by half, which Phil didn't find as odd or as bothersome as he should have. He wondered if the world was ending, that he was getting used to _Tony Stark_ , and liking him, even.

Then Stark waggled his eyebrows suggestively, and Phil found himself smiling as he all but removed him bodily from the office.

"I'll let Barton know you're available," Stark tossed cheerily over his shoulder, and Phil refused to feel ashamed for the smile that stretched across his face.

****

As far as Phil was concerned, it was simple bad luck that the day he decided to wear his brand new suit was the day New York fell under attack, ending the lucky streak that Phil had admittedly taken for granted over the past four months. It was a rather different sort of bad luck that saw him outside when it happened, standing under the awning of his favorite sandwich shop and clutching a bag too tightly in his hands as he watched aliens speed above the streets, glowing monsters with leathery wings. Shock didn't describe what he was feeling, not entirely, but if he'd had the presence of mind to make any noise, it was easily drowned out by the terror of everyone around him.

Phil saw the flames build on themselves, as high as a skyscraper, and this time, the fire truck sirens were too close. They sped past him, a chorus line of emergency vehicles that took the corners far too fast, and Phil stepped out onto the sidewalk only to be jostled by the crowd running past him in the opposite direction. He dropped his lunch and barely noticed when mustard splattered against his pants leg, eyes instinctively fixed on the flames. They were almost certainly coming from Stark Tower, but even if they hadn't begun there, they'd be there soon. He pictured his work curling into ash and didn't care, but then he pictured panicked employees running into the streets, out in the open, and his feet found a life of their own.

Fighting the crowd was like fighting a current, impossible in his slick shoes, but he swerved around them, heels clicking across the curb before he found room to run in the empty bike path. Four blocks, he told himself. He was only four blocks away, and even with his sedentary lifestyle, he could manage four blocks.

He'd made it two before he saw the Avengers streak past, feeling proud as he saw familiar red and gold trailing the Hulk to the east and Thor and Black Widow flying to the west. Phil didn't know what good it would do, containment when the flames seemed to spread across the horizon, but he pushed it from his mind and focused on moving forward. The winged creatures didn't seem interested in him, something he was grateful for even as he noted that this was a bad thing: if they weren't here to terrorize, they were here for another reason, and Phil picked up his pace.

Whatever had kept the monsters focused elsewhere failed to shield him when he was a block from Stark Tower, close enough to see that what he'd thought were flames were actually lights, bright and flickering and unnatural. Phil rolled as soon as he felt eyes on him, landing hard on his hands behind the safety of an overturned Prius. Another light flickered to life where he'd been standing, not fired but spawned out of open air, and there was no heat or noise, just pure magic.

It was, he decided, embarrassingly outside of his field of expertise, and he was only grateful when he felt a rough tug on his collar. He turned to find Hawkeye staring him down, in full armor and with more weapons than Phil could probably see.

" _Coulson_?" His voice was disbelieving but pitched high. "What on Earth are you doing out here?"

"Going back to work." Phil was surprised his voice came out normal, but he credited the even tone to the hand still wrinkling the collar of his suit. 

Hawkeye, as if realizing this, let go of him immediately, something further explained when he fired an arrow over the top of the car. An all too human screech came a moment later, but Phil didn't check to see if Hawkeye's aim had been true.

"I'm going back to work," Phil repeated, voice laden with emphasis, and he was surprised when Hawkeye shook his head.

"The working floors were evacuated underground when Pythmas came. Apparently he doesn't like the dark." Phil's confusion must have shown on his face, because Hawkeye fired two more arrows and then explained, mostly. "He's apparently a friend of an enemy of Thor's. Likes bat-monsters and long walks on the beach."

Phil didn't want to know the details, didn't need to know them to know the outcome they were headed towards, and, on impulse, he held out a hand.

"Give me a gun."

"The hell I will." The words came out a little higher than before, a little panicked. Phil didn't wonder, not immediately, but he saw the expression on his face and stored it away. "Steve is two blocks north of here, heading up the evacuations. Get there as fast as you can."

It was a bad idea like so many other bad ideas, and Phil didn't lower his hand.

"How am I supposed to get there now, in the middle of this?" He gestured with one hand, and he was appropriately splattered with the remnants of an exploded bat for his trouble. Hawkeye made a frustrated noise as he notched another arrow.

"I'll lead them the other way. I'll hold them off. I'll call Stark or Thor back if necessary, but I'll hold them off. You just _get going_."

Realization hit Phil like debris, like lunchtime condiments and the blood from monstrous bats, a surprise but not really. He didn't have time to be flattered, or to pursue the other emotions that would likely follow, because Hawkeye—because _Clint_ —was only one man. 

"Clint." Clint turned to look at him, surely surprised to hear his first name in the middle of a battle, and Phil held out his hand with determination. "I'm a good shot, and you can't afford to put all your efforts into protecting me." Clint hesitated, and Phil clenched his jaw, prepared to argue further if necessary. "Barton. Give me a gun."

Without another word, Clint lowered his bow and handed him a gun.


	6. Chapter 6

It had been two years since Phil had held a gun any smaller than a rifle, but the adjustment to the handgun was minor and done mostly on the move. Clint disappeared from sight almost as soon as Phil took off running, but Phil had seen enough Avengers footage to know that he would be hiding somewhere high and out of sight. Phil hoped that the bad guys hadn't taken it upon themselves to start watching the evening news reels before they decided to attack, but he didn't have much time to worry about that. He'd gone less than ten steps when one of the bat-monsters dove for him, failing to catch him only because of an arrow that went through its chest.

 _Get it together, Coulson_ , Phil thought, and he kept the gun pointed at the ground, prepared to flick the safety off at any moment. When a bat came after him a few seconds later, Phil was unsure whether it was the arrow or the bullet that killed it.

They kept coming. Phil ran, and he couldn't understand it. They'd shown no interest in him before, and they didn't seem interested in finding where Clint was hiding even though he was easily the bigger threat. It was strange, but Phil kept his head low, tried not to think, and ran.

When he was a block away, he was aware of them no longer following him, and against Clint's directions, he stopped and turned. Not a bat in sight.

 _What the hell_ , Phil thought with a frown, watching as more lights appeared on the skyline. If there was a pattern, he couldn't see it, but he was convinced they were in those specific locations for a reason. There had to be a reason they were congregating around Stark Tower, a reason why they were clearing everyone out and leaving trails of light behind.

Phil ran back the way he came, this time careful to stay pressed to the sides of the buildings. There were no shadows to hide in, and he was guessing the bats had excellent hearing; he wouldn't be able to hide for long. He hoped Clint would forgive him, and that his hunch wasn't about to get them all killed. Phil took aim at the center of one of the lights, nudged the safety off, and fired. The light flickered off without a sound.

The screeches that followed were numerous and angry, and Phil instinctively dove for cover underneath an old van. This time, the bats swarmed him, rocking the van back and forth although they appeared not to know how to tip it over or get to him. Phil resisted the jolt of fear in his spine and didn't shoot the bats; instead, he aimed and fired at another light, and he was rewarded when the light went out like a candle.

The Avengers, wherever they were, must have reached a similar conclusion, because the lights began to disappear faster. Phil didn't understand it—he would never understand magic—but he figured he didn't need to. Within minutes, the bats had left his location to pursue the other assailants on their task, and he was shaking as he crawled slowly out from under the van. Now he could evacuate.

His knee was sore as he limped across the sidewalk, gun at the ready, but nothing bothered him. It seemed almost peaceful, seemed that way until he'd gotten half a block away and the lights began to renew with impressive vigor. There wasn't a bat in sight, and Phil paused. There wasn't an Avenger in sight either.

Phil weighed his options, lifted the gun, and fired.

****

The aftermath of the battle was interesting in a lot of ways, but the most notable thing, as far as Phil was concerned, was how much his previous efforts had already begun to _work_. The Avengers Insurance quadrupled its number of policyholders just hours after the attack, and unlike previous conflicts, the destruction was kept to a minimum, and the public was much more subdued. There was no frenzied party of just having survived the apocalypse, not like there had been every time before, but neither was there a riot in the making. Phil was content with the middle ground, and he hoped that their position in the public eye would only improve with time and the release of Stark and Steve's articles.

Phil felt oddly happy about the entire thing, or he did until Stark came up to him with a glossy color photo in one hand.

"Coulson, what the hell? Why didn't you say you could shoot?"

Phil examined the picture, and saw it was a photo of him crouched behind a flipped Honda Civic, face stern, suit in disarray, and gun aimed somewhere off frame. It looked heroic, but Phil shrugged it off. JARVIS and clever editing, no doubt.

"I was a junior marksman," he answered, and he didn't mention that he'd also gotten a scholarship for shooting, years ago. They were suitably impressed anyway, and when Tony asked him to come to their celebratory dinner and drinks—as an "honorary Avenger"—the invitation was echoed by everyone within earshot. Phil agreed immediately, and hoped his eyes didn't linger too much on the curves of Clint's biceps, covered in grit and beautifully exposed.

Dinner was a hectic affair, with more noise and conversation than he had ever personally encountered, and being in the thick of it was a welcome headache. These were his people, he realized. This was where he was supposed to be, he was certain of it. He was less certain of Clint and this _thing_ they'd been building, but even if Clint was silent and distant during dinner, Phil didn't give up hope. He was a grown man, after all; he could risk rejection for something greater.

It was only after the Avengers moved from restaurant to bar that Phil got his chance, and he seated himself at the bar, separate from the others. He ordered a beer, whatever was on tap, and he felt a strange sense of déjà vu as he listened to the laughter behind him. Phil took a deep breath and turned, finding Clint's eyes immediately.

Phil raised his glass, a silent invitation, and watched as Clint quickly looked away. The message was clear.

Phil tried to swallow his disappointment, wash it down with beer. So the interest wasn't there anymore. He could handle that. Hell, Phil could even understand it; it wasn't often you got more than one chance to impress someone, and Phil wasn't that impressive once you met him. So, really, it was fine that Clint wasn't interested in him beyond friendship. Goddammit.

The stool next to him creaked, the only sign of it being occupied, and Phil wasn't surprised to look up and find Natasha suddenly sitting there.

"Hey, Coulson," she said mildly, and Phil nodded his head once before going back to staring at the bar top. It didn't deter her. "Any reason you're sitting alone? The party's over there, in case you hadn't noticed."

"I don't feel like partying," Phil said, and he was ashamed to say it came out almost sullenly. Natasha hummed thoughtfully.

"Yes, I can see that." Phil felt the weight of her stare on his shoulders for a moment, and then he saw her raise her arm, like a commander leading an army into battle. "Clint! Come here!"

Phil tensed but didn't say anything, although he was uncomfortably aware of every fall of heavy footsteps as Clint came closer.

"What is it, Nat?" Clint's voice was softly concerned, and the sound distracted Phil enough that he didn't jump out of his stool when Natasha ran one hand down his side.

"Coulson isn't feeling well. Take care of him for me, will you?"

She didn't wait for an answer before she hopped off her seat and left, good deed for the night apparently done. Phil didn't know whether to be grateful or not when Clint immediately took her spot, but it definitely wasn't gratitude he felt when Clint scooted slightly closer and laid a hand gently on his shoulder.

"Hey, Coulson? You're not going to be sick or anything, right?"

Phil turned his nearly empty mug in his hands, shaking his head as he did so.

"No. Really, I'm fine." Clint's hand didn't move, and when Phil looked up, he identified the expression on his face as fond concern, and Phil remembered what he'd looked like while panicked. "You can call me Phil, you know."

Clint dropped his hand, and turned to face the room with his elbows resting on the bar.

"I didn't want to assume." The words sounded stiff, and Phil sighed.

"Look, Clint." Clint glanced at him, looking startled. He probably hadn't expected Phil's eyes to be fixed on him like they were. "I know we didn't have the best start, but there's no reason we can't be friends." The words were hard to force out, but honest. "You seemed unusually quiet at dinner."

Clint bit his lip, and the action made it a little harder to keep to the "just friends" speech.

"It's nothing."

"Is it? You're not angry with me for putting myself in the action, are you, because I told you before I left—"

"It was really hot," Clint blurted, and once the words were out, he immediately looked embarrassed. Phil closed his mouth with a snap, and Clint hurried on. "I mean, obviously you're not into me, you know, like that, and I get it. But you were really something before, and then seeing you in your perfect fucking suit with a gun was just…" Clint trailed off, the expression on his face showing awe and frustration in equal measure, and Phil could easily come up with his own description.

Phil bit down on a smile, and glanced back at his beer. He really didn't want it anymore.

"I could be, you know." He looked back up at Clint, and smiled. "Into you. Like _that_."

It took Clint a moment, and then a grin started to spread across his face, ignoring his clear attempts to stop it.

"Coulson, that line is just awful."

"Better than yours. At least mine is original."

Clint laughed like it was the funniest joke he'd heard all night. Phil knew for a fact he wasn't that funny, but it was nice all the same.

"So…Phil, huh?" Clint bumped his shoulder in a gentle sway, and he didn't move back afterwards, staying close and warm. "Do you want to get out of here?"

Phil pushed his beer aside.

"My place or yours?"

****

The decision to go to Phil's apartment was motivated by the fact that Phil couldn't help but view Stark Tower as 'work,' but Clint didn't seem to mind one way or another once they stepped into the taxi. The taxi, of course, was motivated by the fact that Phil couldn't bring himself to stand in a subway and _wait_ , because he'd waited long enough. The extra money seemed worth it when Clint pressed in close, the length of his thigh against Phil's even though there was more than enough room to his other side.

"So," Clint said with a flirtatious smile, "seen any good movies recently?"

Phil snorted, and the urge to kiss the smile from his face was almost overwhelming.

 _Don't lunge for him,_ Phil thought, _The driver will notice._ It was barely enough to keep him in check, and even then it was mostly because the man up front kept casting curious glances Clint's way. Phil was pretty sure this car ride was going to be in a gossip magazine by tomorrow. Phil was pretty sure he didn't care.

The taxi pulled up to the curb only short minutes later, New York's traffic strangely obliging that night, and Clint was out the door before they came to a complete stop. Phil had barely handed the man the fare (plus a very generous tip) when his door opened from the outside, and Phil nearly smiled. Apparently, he wasn't the only one who was overeager.

Where the ride home had seemed slow, the walk up those last few steps seemed agonizing. Phil fumbled for his copy of the front door key, and he was aware of Clint standing next to him, watching with hooded eyes.

The door clicked open and they reached for each other, uncaring that neither the front door nor the lobby was the best place for it. Phil groaned when their mouths met, too hard for comfort but wonderful, and he surged forward, surprised when Clint let himself be moved all the way to the elevator. It was a pleasant surprise, just like the sounds Clint made when his back hit the elevator wall.

The ding of the doors closing was enough to bring them both back to reality, but not enough to separate. Phil dug his fingers hard into the armor over Clint's waist, feeling light-headed when the material didn't give at all but Clint shuddered anyway, hand wrapping around the wide end of Phil's tie. Phil couldn't resist going in for another kiss, but this one was less hurried, less desperate, a kiss of first meetings rather than pent up longing.

He savored the feel of Clint's smooth cheek against his own as he pulled back, and the expression in Clint's light eyes was unreadable. The elevator door opened, and Phil was amazed that he was able to walk in a straight line across the hallway. Clint watched with interested approval as he punched in his passcode and turned the key at the same time, perfectly synchronized. The door wouldn't have unlocked otherwise.

"What? I'm careful." Phil turned the knob and pushed the door open with one shoulder. "Anyone can pick a lock."

Clint had no comment on that, which Phil couldn't help but take as the agreement a government agent shouldn't admit to. It made him amused more than paranoid, and the reality of that made Phil think he was in over his head, even if he didn't regret it. He was an _honorary Avenger_ ; changing that wasn't an option, and he knew he could handle this too.

When Clint followed him inside, looking politely interested in their surroundings, Phil even thought it was worth it.

"Nice place," Clint said, and Phil didn't have to be a mind reader to know he was probably comparing it to Stark Tower. "I like the walls." He hooked a finger in the waist of Phil's pants as he kicked the door closed. "I'm looking forward to the other rooms, though."

Phil chuckled.

"Smooth, Clint. Really smooth."

"That's what they all say," Clint said, smiling shamelessly, and Phil couldn't resist leaning forward to kiss him, couldn't resist staying there a long while. Clint followed his lead as they moved down the hall and to the bedroom, and if he minded the manhandling, he didn't show it. If the way he purred against him was any indication, it was quite the opposite.

They separated for air long enough for Phil to pull back and fumble for his dresser.

"Do you have any allergies? To latex, or anything?"

Clint shook his head, still breathing hard, and Phil tossed a handful of condoms and a bottle of lube in the direction of the bed, uncaring where they fell. Clint looked like he might laugh, and Phil responded by leaning close enough to feel his heat through his clothes. The vest felt cold under his hands, trapping body heat, and it was a contrast with bare skin, one Phil couldn't seem to get enough of. Clint, on the other hand, couldn't seem to stop touching Phil's chest, the soft dress shirt being smoothed over the contour of his stomach again and again. 

When Phil shrugged out of his suit coat and blindly tossed it over a chair, Clint made an approving noise and started undoing his tie.

"I do love a man in a suit," Clint said, tugging the knot of his tie loose. "But I think this is better, because it's you."

It wasn't the most eloquent of compliments, but it made Phil feel warm all the same as his tie hit the floor. Clint's vest seemed to have more fastenings than it needed, and so he left Clint to do that on his own Phil neatly unfastened the buttons of his shirt. If Phil had been a competitive man, the sight of Clint's bare chest would have made him jealous, but as it was, it made him much want to run his tongue over every inch of exposed skin.

Clint saw the look and grinned, teasingly popping the button on his jeans with one hand. 

"I thought you said something about being _into me_ , Coulson. Don't tell me you've lost your nerve."

"No, just enjoying the view." Phil punctuated the sentence by removing his belt with a snap, not missing the way Clint's eyes lit up at the sound. Another time.

They got undressed in record speed and Clint took the lead, urging Phil back to the bed. Phil's hands itched with the urge to map out every scar and tendon, but on instinct he kept his hands to himself as he sat on the edge of the mattress. Clint kneeled in front of him, lips finding Phil's sternum as though magnetized, and Phil reached out, digging his fingers into skin as the soft kisses moved lower.

Phil felt faintly embarrassed with the attention Clint lavished on his soft stomach, but the emotion paled compared to the joy he saw on Clint's face. It was strange to think that touching him would give someone such happiness, but Phil couldn't deny he felt the same when his hands roamed Clint's shoulders and back.

When Clint's hands descended lower and then paused, inches away from their goal, Phil groaned, and Clint laughed. When he spoke, his voice was husky.

"What do you want?" Clint asked, and Phil reached out a hand and swiped a thumb over his lower lip. Clint rarely stopped talking once he got started, or so it seemed, but the noises he made were something else entirely. Phil could only imagine how vocal he was in other ways.

He shuddered, and Clint grinned under his fingertips.

"Mouth it is."

Clint pressed his lips to Phil's hip bone, to his thighs, and then there was the sound of crinkling plastic, a condom being unwrapped. The condom was barely on before Clint followed, his mouth hot over the head of Phil's cock, face displaying open enjoyment. An insistent finger brushed against his hole, slick with lube and gentle, and Phil closed his eyes with a groan. The soles of his feet tingled, and his head fell back on the pillows.

"Christ," he muttered, and Clint hummed pleasantly, bobbing his head with abandon while his hands petted Phil's thighs. Phil brushed his fingers against Clint's jaw, a gentle encouragement, and Clint pulled back just enough to mouth wetly at exposed skin.

"God, what I wouldn't give to taste you."

"Someday," Phil promised, meaning it. Clint's eyes went soft and returned to his task with renewed enthusiasm.

Phil didn't last long against the pull of Clint's mouth and the crook of his finger, and he came with a gasp before collapsing against the mattress. Clint chuckled and pulled away, and Phil reached for him, for the breadth of his shoulders, and he pulled him closer until he could reach the still-hard cock between his thighs. He palmed him, bare skin slick with sweat and arousal, and the length of him twitched in Phil's hands.

"Condom?" Phil asked, and Clint shook his head.

"Not gonna last that long," he said, and then he changed the angle of Phil's hand, the gentle pumping becoming a squeeze and a twist. Within seconds, Phil's hand was warm and sticky, and Clint was shaking, head pressed to Phil's shoulder.

"That…was fucking fantastic." Clint said, then huffed out a laugh against his skin. "Or fantastic fucking, I guess."

Phil pushed him away with a laugh, and scooted backwards to lie on the bed, shifting only to wrestle a few crinkled condoms from under his thighs.

"Way to ruin the mood," Phil said, but he didn't mean it, especially not when Clint rolled and hooked an ankle around his calf.

They were silent for a few minutes of pure contentment before Clint moved, a nervous wriggling that seemed out of place.

"I have a confession to make."

Phil rolled to his side, still too blessedly drained to care much about conversation. Clint apparently wasn't, and Phil tried not to envy his stamina.

"Oh?"

"Yeah. The, uh, first night we met." Clint bit his lip, looking guilty, and Phil smoothed a hand down his arm. It seemed to do the trick. "I might have pointed you out to Stark at some point. So sorry if he's been hassling you, or anything."

Phil's hand stilled. A few things that hadn't made sense suddenly did, and Phil refrained from saying that Stark hadn't bothered him, he'd just shoved him into a job.

It didn't faze him as much as it probably should have.

"Tell him he owes me a raise," Phil settled on, and Clint gave a startled laugh.

"That's it?"

"Well, no." Phil stretched leisurely, taking the opportunity to enjoy the view of Clint spread out naked and shameless on his bed. "Tell him thanks, too."

Clint smiled, and somehow, it was the best part of Phil's evening.

****

The End

**Author's Note:**

> This work is a combination of two prompts as well as being a Big Bang:
> 
> [Office worker!Coulson rejects Avenger!Clint](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/11264.html?thread=26505472#t26505472)
> 
> [Coulson is Pepper Pott's PA](http://cc-feelsmeme.livejournal.com/1635.html?thread=323427#t323427) 
> 
> This also fulfills "chosen family" on my Trope Bingo Card, "secret skills" on my Coulson Character Table, and "different occupation" on my Longfic Bingo Card. (I know, I know--so many things. XD)
> 
> Thanks for reading everyone!


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